


Ficlets and tumblr prompts/drabbles

by allonsys_girl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Baker Street, Baking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, John Feels, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 18:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ficlets and bits and pieces, some stuff published on tumblr first, from prompts and such</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rainy Day Baking

Sherlock loves rain. The smell of it, pulling ancient damp out of the London sidewalks, turning it into something fresh and clean and cool. The sound of it, smacking against windowpanes, dropping off overhangs. The light inside when it’s raining, grey and calm. Rain is soothing. London rain is omnipresent, constant. Even on the sunniest day, London is a city built for rain. It belongs here.

Sherlock loves John on rainy days. A kind of alien quiet comes over him; not his normal barely contained anger, no, not that. Actual calm. Peace. It makes both of them slow down, when John does, works a spell over Baker Street. Companionable silence, John reading and doing odd chores around the flat, Sherlock nominally working, but mostly watching John with shining eyes.

John’s puttering in the kitchen now, cupboards being rattled, bowls set on the counter. John’s set Sherlock’s chemistry things on the floor by the door to the hallway, his usual spot for them when he’s doing anything food related and needs space. Sherlock folds the laptop closed and unfolds himself from the chair. He hasn’t moved in hours. Stands up and stretches, the muscles in his back protesting rather stringently. He shakes out the stiffness -  _god, is he really getting old enough to have stiffness on rainy days?_  - and pads barefoot into the kitchen.

John’s standing with his back to the room, apron on, his arms elbow deep in a huge stainless steel mixing bowl that Sherlock has never even seen before. Sherlock slips quietly up behind him and tucks his chin over John’s shoulder. John’s front is covered in flour,  hands kneading a puffy ball of dough that smells curiously comforting. Sherlock’s always been attuned to smells more than most people, his nose being an important contributor to The Work. It's just about The Work.

John says differently. John likes the smell of Tesco’s, plastic and cleaning fluid and new clothes and packaged food, because he says it reminds him of the first time he did the shopping for the both of them. John likes the heady green smell of grass being cut, because it reminds him of playing rugby when he was a boy. John likes the smell of Sherlock’s neck, musky and sour from sleep, because it reminds him of the first time they woke up in the same bed. Smells are associated with feelings, memories. Smells mean something, they stir the soul. That’s what John always says.

This smell, of yeast and flour and John, musky and woolen and soapy, this smell is intoxicatingly pleasant. This smell is  _home_. This smell is wet coats dripping off in the entryway on a fall afternoon, and apples crisp and cold, bitten into on the walk home from the shop, this is John’s hands in Sherlock’s hair cuddled under the comforter on a chilly morning, and his blue eyes illuminated by the flickering firelight. This smell is brilliantly complicated and primally simple. Sherlock’s never smelled anything like this before.

“What are you doing?”

“Making bread.” John smiles and turns his head so their noses bump. He smiles warmly, kisses Sherlock’s lips, and turns back to the bread bowl.

“I’ve never seen you do this before.” John’s always pulling out something new, showing Sherlock a new side of him, something Sherlock never expects. Last week, during a particularly frustrating chase, it was karate. Suddenly John was posing and kicking in a way that was nearly comical if it hadn’t been so puzzling, and then so effective, as John cut down the person they’d been chasing with one swift kick, whipped his arms behind his back, and pinned him to the pavement until Greg arrived with handcuffs.

_ I had no idea you knew any martial arts, John. _

_Took karate for eight years when I was a kid. Brown belt._

_You never...But you’ve never done that before._

_Never needed to._

_I hate not knowing things about you._

Sherlock had become petulant, sulking in the cab on the way home. When they got out, John smiled and shook his head and pushed him against the wall, kissing him long and deep, his tongue playing across Sherlock’s lips and licking his jaw. John bit his lips and stroked his cheek, looking at him from under those perfect blonde lashes, and said,  _No you don’t, you love when you find out something new about me. You love being outwitted by your idiot._   

Sherlock had mumbled a  _Maybe_  against John’s neck and then John’s hands were stealthily untucking Sherlock’s shirt, and they were laughing wildly, leaving the front door hanging completely open and they tripped their way up the steps holding hands, and barely made it to the bedroom.

“Well, I never felt like it before. It’s been years, actually. It just...seemed like a day to bake bread.” John leans back against the steady surface of Sherlock’s chest and breathes in, but his hands don’t leave the bowl. “This loaf needs to rise. You want to help me make the next one?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s feeling that slight nervous anticipation he always feels when John’s instructing him instead of the other way around. He wants so badly to make him happy, to make John proud of him.

"You can’t make a mistake, Sherlock. Okay?” John’s voice is tender as he thumps the loaf of raw dough into a ceramic pan, another one Sherlock didn’t even know they had, and tilts his head at Sherlock as he pats the dough down to fit the contours of the pan. “Have you never baked anything before?”

“No.” Sherlock feels embarrassed by this, he doesn’t know why.

John smiles and dusts his floury hands in the sink. Those blue eyes - those one of a kind blue silver eyes, shot through with black streaks and flecked with grey and just  _absolutely perfect_  blue eyes that Sherlock can never stop looking into, no matter how hard he tries to look somewhere else - are contemplative, almost melancholy.

“I used to bake all the time. My mum, she...it was the one thing we liked to do together.” John’s eyebrows knit upwards, his lips press in a line. His eyes cast down for just a second, long enough to make Sherlock’s heart clench painfully. Suddenly, he wants to bake a loaf of bread more than he’s ever wanted to do anything in his entire life.

“Yes, John. I want to, show me how.”

“Yeah?” John smiles at him, that big, close-mouthed smile, and his eyes crinkle up at the corners, and Sherlock wants to bottle that expression, carry it around in his pocket for whenever he needs a reminder that the world isn’t awful.

John Watson’s smile in a bottle is something every person on earth should be able to have.

“Yeah. Teach me.”

“Okay.” John can’t stop smiling, and then Sherlock can’t stop smiling, and it’s one of those perfect moments when everything stops, the rain dripping slowly off the weathered eaves, the smell of the bread rising, the heat of the oven wrapping round their legs.

John breaks the spell first, planting one hand on his hip and and pointing at the sink with the other. “Wash your hands, really well. God only knows where those hands have been lately.”

“On my computer.” Sherlock tries to sound offended, but he turns the water on and lathers up his hands anyway.

“God knows where that’s been.” John laughs and comes up behind Sherlock, presses his flour covered stomach against Sherlock’s back and kisses his shoulder through his shirt. “This is nice. Doing something...normal...together.”

Sherlock opens his mouth with a snarky retort lodged just behind his teeth, but changes course mid breath. “I -- yes. It is.”

Sherlock dries his hands and John hands him an apron. “You’ll like baking, Sherlock. It’s just chemistry, really.”

“Interesting.”

John shows Sherlock how to weigh and measure the flour, what temperature the water should be. He wraps his short fingers around Sherlock’s, their wrists lined up, and helps him gently sprinkle the yeast over the surface of the water. Sherlock’s eyes light up with the excitement of a child discovering something wholly new when they add the sugar and the yeast blooms.

“John, look!” He points to the bowl of brown and tan blossoming across the surface of the warm water, and grins at John broadly.

“I know, Sherlock. I told you it was chemistry. Now we have to wait until it proofs.” John punches down the first loaf, which has risen to twice its original size, and kneads it again.

Sherlock sets his chin in his hands and tilts his head, watching the yeast devour the sugar. He can’t believe that he’s missed out on this all this time, watching the process of separate ingredients meld, blend, alter their chemical composition, become new. “John, this is  _fascinating_.”

“Yes, love.” John’s voice is amused, but Sherlock knows John’s not mocking him. He sounds pleased and happy, and Sherlock thinks suddenly that John should sound this way much, much more often than he does.

John lets Sherlock dump the flour in, and mix it with a spoon until it’s too thick to do so anymore. “Now you have to do it with your hands. You want to?”

“Yes.” Sherlock loves kneading the dough, the feeling of it between his fingers, of it coming together under his hands.  _Making_  something.  _Creating_  something.

Usually Sherlock is taking things apart. Deducing things - crimes, people, even John - down into their tiniest bits, pulling them into separate pieces so he can see what they’re made of. The feeling of doing the opposite, of taking all these disparate ingredients and putting them together to make something whole and good and simple...it’s more pleasant than Sherlock could have imagined.

John helps him roll it and put it into a pan to rise, and they sit in the kitchen over cups of tea while the first loaf bakes and fills the flat with mouth watering aromas. John picks up Sherlock’s hand in both of his, and studies it, running his fingertips over the knuckles and kissing the calloused pads with a soft mouth. Finally, he threads his own fingers through Sherlock’s and rests their entwined hands on the table.

It’s raining harder now. A steady thudding against window, the ringing of rain against the metal bins out back.

“I love you.” John’s voice is husky, he sounds like he might cry. Sherlock’s worried suddenly that something is wrong.

“I love you, too. Are you alright?” Sherlock rubs his thumb over the heel of John’s hand and waits.

John nods, looks down at their hands clasped together and back up at Sherlock. “Yeah. I just, um. This meant a lot to me, doing this with you. I don’t know, it felt...like  _family_. You’re my family, Sherlock. You know that.”

“If I’d known baking bread was all it took to get you so sentimental, I’d have banned the activity years ago.” Sherlock’s smiling, though, and John knows how touched he is.

Finally the first loaf is done, and John makes Sherlock wait 10 minutes to let it cool, even though it smells so delicious and looks so beautiful and crusty and incredible and he can't believe that John  _made that_  and Sherlock wants to rip it apart with his bare hands. They slice it and John puts cold butter on top, and Sherlock thinks it’s the most singularly amazing thing he’s ever eaten. He can’t believe something so simple can be so delicious and comforting and he can’t get enough.

They eat the entire loaf before the second one is finished baking.

John insists they take the second loaf down to Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock reluctantly relents, but later, when the rain has stopped and John is fussing at Sherlock over the state of the flat and Sherlock is getting stroppy with John because he just doesn’t  _comprehend_ , they stop and look at each other, and John says,  _Do you want me to show you how to make scones?_

And Sherlock laughs and says  _yes_ , and helps John pile the chemistry set in the corner. 


	2. the first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from a tumblr prompt: the first time was...

On a rainy Sunday morning. I woke with your hands already on me, your mouth hot against my shoulder. 

We had kissed, of course, more or less constantly since you’d come home. Kissed quick and casual as we said goodbye while you pulled the front door shut. Kissed gentle and slow with your hands up my shirt against the kitchen counter. Kissed fierce and hungry half drunk in the back of a cab. Kissed until my mouth was burning from your tongue and my scalp stung from your hands in my hair, half undressed on the sofa in the blue flickering light of the telly. 

But you always stopped it.  _Okay, love, okay. Easy does it. Let’s go to bed now, yeah? Cuddle you up a bit before we sleep._

Always so careful with me. Taking it slow because you didn’t want to alarm me, because that’s your nature, to protect me. It’s just who you are. 

We only waited a few weeks, truth be told, but after all the years that came before, it felt like an eternity. I wanted, I wanted  _so badly._ I wanted to explore every inch of your body with my fingers and my tongue. I wanted to taste you and memorise your smells and listen to you panting over top of me. I wanted to feel your muscles moving under my hands. I wanted things I couldn’t even name. 

But you were being careful with me, and I let you be. 

So all I could think that morning when I awoke with your fingers dipping gently under the waistband of my pants and your voice husky with sleep whispering my name, all I could think was  _finally_. I pushed back against you and you smiled against my bare skin.

_Yeah?_

_Oh, god, yes, please, John -_

You  _growled_  at my assent, rolling against me hard and hot, kissed my neck and my hair, and your hands were everywhere at once. It was so hot under the covers we were both sweating in minutes, your sinewy forearm glistening against my chest as you pulled me against you. I had sweat in my eyelashes when I turned and caught your mouth, pulled your tongue between my lips, salt and toothpaste and last night’s garlicky pasta. 

You were careful with me even then, every new touch accompanied by a soft  _Okay?_

You turned me on my back, looking down at me with lust-drenched eyes, that crooked smile playing on your kiss swollen lips, and I couldn’t get you close enough. My entire body wanted you, I couldn’t touch you with enough of my skin. 

You bent down and kissed me so gently, the rain slipping down the window behind you. That image has it’s own room in my mind, just your sleep spiked hair outlined against the white sky between the curtains, the tips of your ears crimson with arousal. 

_Oh, love, you feel so good, you feel amazing_

_You’re so deep, John, so deep, oh god_

_Are you alright?_

_Harder, please, harder_

You buried your face in my shoulder when you came, whimpering and shaking, your hands pressing mine hard into the rumpled sheets. I kissed the side of your face and you murmured my name like you were praying. You laid there, all the evidence of my desperate need for you drying sticky between our bellies, until your breath slowed and your shoulders stopped heaving.

_Okay, John?_

You laughed, sweet and slow, and kissed at my throat.  _Yeah, Sherlock. Okay._


	3. worry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from tumblr prompt: Thoughts that always seem to chase me down in the middle of the night

Oh, the middle of the night. The middle of the night has always been hard for me. It’s too quiet. Too much room to think. 

It’s been better. Since you. 

Sometimes though. Sometimes I still startle awake, anxiety heavy in my stomach and my nerves on fire, at two in the morning. I try not to wake you, if you’re beside me. 

I drink water out of the kitchen tap and lean against the counter, staring out at the fire escape with sleep stung eyes.

My thoughts coalesce slowly as my hammering heart calms. 

I worry about you. About us. About the silences that still creep between us sometimes when we’re not careful. There’s so much we still don’t say, so much we’ve never talked about. I don’t share things about myself with people, it’s not my nature. Neither do you. We’ve both worked hard to try to be different with each other, to let each other in where we’ve never let anyone else. 

I’m proud of us for that, for how far we’ve come. 

But I see sadness in your eyes sometimes that you won’t talk about. I’ve touched the scars on your back, I’ve kissed them with my mouth and my tears, and I still don’t know how you got them. You won’t tell me. We don’t talk about  _her_ , about what happened in those months after she shot you. Or the aftermath of it, that lingered and reverberated, and changed everything for us. That ultimately brought me back home, and into your life again the way I should have always been. 

We don’t talk about anything that happened before, before that first night when I was home again. Remember? I said I was going to bed, and you smiled at me, the glow of the laptop reflecting in your hair, and said  _Goodnight, John_ and I slipped into your bedroom like I’d always belonged there.

You gasped, just a little, when you came to bed hours later and saw me curled under your sheets. But then you were crawling in beside me, and when I reached out an arm, you let me hold you. I fell back asleep with my lips against your spine and your ice cold feet tucked between my ankles, and I’d never felt more peaceful. 

I thought we were  _fixed_. That it would be all bliss and sex and lazy snogging on the sofa.

But it’s work, isn’t it, love? It’s still work, even though I’m completely mad about you. And we’re difficult. Both of us. 

So that’s what I think about in the middle of the night. You. Us. Making sure we’re okay. 

You’re moving around now. I can hear you. Your body wondering where I’ve gone even before you’re conscious. 

I tiptoe into the bedroom. Your arm is thrown across my side of the bed, fingers tangled in my pillowcase. I lay down beside you, and you immediately pull me in, wrapping your entire body around me like a vine. You kiss my ear sleepily and murmur  _Where’d you go?_  and I wriggle back against you, settling our bodies together, and kiss the inside of your wrist.  _Just had to take a piss._

I should tell you. I should talk to you. But this,having you coiled around me like this, soft and sleep-drunk and _mine_ , is so precious to me, so long in coming. I don’t want to disrupt this. I don't want to talk about difficult things. I want to feel your stomach pressed in the small of my back, and hear those little sighs in my ear. I can't bring myself to disturb this calm between us. 

So I fall asleep with my head on your arm and your leg over my hip, and promise myself we’ll talk about it tomorrow.


	4. the constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for the tumblr prompt: things that remind me of you

Oh, I guess there’s the obvious things. The coat and the violin and the phone. But those are the things everyone sees. Anyone could say those remind them of you. This is about  _my_  Sherlock, the one no one gets to see but me. So, what reminds me of you? Well, my love, it’s going to be a long list.

The smell of patchouli and lavender, from that one bath bomb that always leaves purple rings around the tub.  _Bees._  Every time I see a bee I think of you, the stack of beekeeping magazines under our bed, the abandon with which you slather a piece of toast with creamed honey so sweet I can’t even stand a teaspoon of the stuff, but you eat a half a pint and don’t even flinch. 

 _Sunrise._  When you’re still sound asleep, and I can take a moment to really look at you when you’re not fidgeting and talking a mile a minute. All curled in on yourself like a cat, apple cheeked and sweaty - you always get so sweaty when you sleep - and making little grumbly noises that I would never dare call adorable within your hearing. Our room suffused with that pink and orange light that’s particular to sunrises, and it tumbles across your face, that beautiful face, and I love you so much in those moments that my chest hurts. 

 _Owls._ You always remind me of a barn owl the way you blink at me when you’re trying to process something. I’m not making fun, love, I promise. 

Butterflies. Dog eared books. Apple pasties. Cream tea on a rainy afternoon. The smell of leather cleaner. Flannel pyjamas worn through at the knees. Christmas pudding with all the raisins picked out. The sound of the front door creaking open, and the way my stomach still flutters when I hear your footfalls on the stairs. The smell of coffee perking on the hob. The rustle of the sheets when you come to bed five hours after I do and you’re trying not to wake me. Peppermint gum. Autumn leaves. Cigarettes and mouthwash. (I always know, you know.)

The constellations you pretend not to know the names of. 

I could keep going. I could write a book about you. An anthology. Dedicated to all the wondrous and strange things about you that make me go funny in the knees. Maybe I will one day. Maybe I will. 


	5. i wish it was different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from tumblr prompt: i wish i could tell you...

How sorry I am about that night, when you came back. How much I cocked it up, all the mistakes I made.

I hit you and I said horrible things, and I made you bleed like I had been bleeding for two years, with half my heart torn away. Just bleeding out onto the floor, dying a little more with every day that passed without you in it.

I wanted to make you hurt.

I hated myself for it even while I was doing it. I should never have left with Mary, I should have sent her away, I should have talked to you, I should have let you talk. I should have gone home with you, to where we became _us_ , and watched the firelight flickering silver in your eyes while you told me two years worth of stories. I should have shut you up with a kiss at three in the morning, and lain down with you and kissed your hair and your nose and all the parts of you I never thought I’d see again.

I should have.

Everything would have been different. 


	6. practicing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> from tumblr prompt: things i overheard you say from another room

Will you marry me?

No, god that sounds so - _cliched_ , he’ll hate it. Shit. Ahem, okay.

So, let’s get married. Fuck, that sounds like I don’t even care.

Sherlock, I know we’ll be together forever, and I just want to make it official. No, no, that’s all wrong. Goddammit, I sound like an _idiot_. This is ridiculous.

And now I’m talking to myself.

 _Completely_  to myself. Fantastic. I need a beer. 


	7. first kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in response to the tumlr prompt: The first time I tasted your tongue, I…

had a belly full of Korean takeaway and a glass of red wine in one hand. Your knee brushed mine as you leaned back into the sofa and you didn’t move it away. Your eyes were so dark. Something hot and shivering spread through me and I knew tonight was The Night.  _Sherlock_  you whispered, and all I could do in response was breathe in and out. I almost shut my eyes when I felt you leaning in, but I made myself keep them open. Your thumb on my mouth.  _Okay?_  you asked. Always so careful with me. I nodded, I think. I don’t remember the in between parts. Your mouth was soft and hungry and your tongue was parting my lips so hesitantly I couldn’t stand it. I let my wine spill on the floor when I put my hands in your hair. Neither of us noticed. You tasted like kimchi and jasmine and you smelled like rain. 


	8. Under the Blankets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tumblr ficlet to celebrate John and Sherlock's anniversary

John blinks against the glare of early morning winter sunshine and shuts his eyes again. It can't be more than half seven. His head hurts. A result of too much wine the night before and a frigidly cold bedroom. His _eyelashes_ feel cold, for godssake. He rolls over, wriggles down into the warm cocoon of blankets around him, feeling as though he’s forgetting to do something important. Still foggy with sleep, he drags his eyes open and picks up his phone from the bedside table. _Oh._

It’s January 29th. 

_The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street._ That wink. That wicked little grin. Who wouldn't have been absolutely besotted, honestly? 

John smiles, turns his face into the coolness of his pillow. That first day was beginning of the rest of his life, and inexplicably, he had _known_ it. The second Mike had said _You’re the second person to say that to me today_ , John’s stomach had fluttered with anticipation, nerves tingling. Something was happening, and he would never be the same. That’s what was going through his mind as they walked squeaky-shoed down the white corridors at Bart’s, winding their way to the lab where it all began. 

The door swung open and there he was - curls wild against the cold glass and metal of the walls, those lips just barely parted, a look of surprise and fascination in those changeable eyes He looked so. Untamed. A wild thing. 

John had barely suppressed the shiver that rippled down his spine, watching Sherlock watching him, the immediate connection between them palpable and electric. Sherlock laid it on so thick - the flirting, the cool guy routine. It was both endearing and sexy as hell, and John hadn’t been so enthralled by someone, well. _Ever_. 

They were an _us_ immediately. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t need to. They simply slipped into each other’s empty places, and it _worked_. It was so easy, in the beginning, so natural.

The memory of it aches, makes his chest tight. They were so young, and already both so broken. Somehow, when they were together, neither of them felt that way. John thought he’d found the love of his life, that somehow together they could make themselves whole again.

A cold draught from the rattly window frame blows over him, ruffling his hair. He shivers, tucks his knees into his belly and sighs. 

They couldn’t have known then, what the years ahead would hold for them. The separation. The anguish of always misunderstanding each other. Trying to keep each other safe and always messing it up. _Mary. Moriarty._ The pain of getting married to someone who wasn’t Sherlock, and knowing, with every fibre of his being, how _wrong_ it was. 

God, what they’ve been through. It would have destroyed most people.

John sniffs, scrubs at his eyes with knuckles rough from the cold. He’s _not_ going to cry, not today. 

There’s a sudden rustling behind him, and the mattress dips and bounces. An icy nose touches between his shoulder blades.

“Mmmmm. It’s freezing in here.” Sherlock’s throaty morning voice rumbles against John’s vertabrae, his dry lips dragging soft over sensitive skin. 

John grins, his melancholy evaporating in the sweet hot breath ghosting over his nape, and squirms closer. Sherlock slinks an arm over his waist, bare above his pyjama bottoms, and rubs a flat hand against his belly. Warm. He’s so warm. 

And isn’t that what Sherlock’s always been? Warmth, and comfort, and _home_ , but also _heat_ , a burning viscous desire drenching John’s synapses until all he can think about is _SherlockSherlockSherlock._

He would drown in Sherlock Holmes and never even try to breathe.

Sherlock’s hand is sliding up his chest, the side of his thumb rubbing over his nipples. Those lips move up over his shoulder blades, caress the edges of his scar, drop butterfly light kisses up the side of his throat. 

John twists in Sherlock’s arms, so he can see that beloved face, sleep flushed and translucent, his kiss reddened mouth turned up in a crooked smile. Their knees bump, Sherlock’s foot weaving in between John’s ankles. John touches Sherlock’s mouth, slides his fingertips along one graceful cheekbone. 

Sherlock turns, kisses at John’s palm. “Good morning.”

“Morning. I’ve got a hangover.” John murmurs, brushing the ends of their noses together. 

Sherlock giggles, lilting and happy, and the sound of it lights John up from the inside out. He presses a hard kiss to Sherlock’s lips and throws a leg over Sherlock’s thigh. Heat blooms between them, slow, familiar. The tip of a tongue, a low exhalation, Sherlock dips exploring fingers along the waistband of John’s pyjamas. Promising.

“I do too. We’re _old_ , John.” He huffs a laugh into John’s half open mouth. Stale breath, the traces of a secret cigarette after John fell asleep, lingering sweetness of red wine gone sour overnight.

John doesn’t care. 

“Happy anniversary, old man.” He pulls Sherlock closer, tighter, because maybe there was a moment, maybe more, when this almost slipped away from them, and that’s unimaginable. He strokes his hand up and down Sherlock’s flank, the curve of his hip, the rise of his ribcage. “I love you.”

“I love _you_ , John. Happy anniversary.” Sherlock purrs, his voice gone rough already. 

It’s gentle, and soft, the way Sherlock nudges and nuzzles his way into all John’s hollows, the way he did all those years ago. They move together unhurriedly, sweaty under the blankets, cold noses and hot everywhere else. Sherlock gasps and bites at his lips when John rolls them over, crawls between Sherlock’s spread legs, rubs at him through his pants. They kiss more than usual, lingering touches on bottom lips, licking, tasting, Sherlock’s fingers scratching a rhythm on John’s scalp. 

When John starts to shake, his mouth going slack against the fresh bruise on Sherlock’s neck, Sherlock holds him close and whispers _Come on, come on, oh GOD, John_ and when John shimmies down, takes him in his mouth, salty and already wet, he writhes and arches and grabs at the pillows, and can’t even form words. It’s quiet. It’s worship.

They curl together, breathing heavily, and kiss and kiss and kiss. Kiss until their mouths are sore from each other’s stubble. 

Finally John settles back into the damp sheets, Sherlock’s head heavy against his chest, and tucks the blankets up around them both. 

“I was thinking, this morning, before you were awake. About when we met.” John finds Sherlock’s hand on his belly, twines their fingers together. 

“Of course you were.” Sherlock murmurs, fond.

“And everything else.”

Sherlock is silent, just rubs at John’s fingers. 

“We worked pretty goddamned hard for this, didn’t we?”

“We did.”

“It was worth it.” John squeezes Sherlock closer, stares up at the ceiling, refusing to acknowledge the hot tears slipping into his hair.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock props himself up on his elbow and looks down at John, his own eyes glistening at the corners. He kisses John’s cheek, his nose, his mouth. “Of course it was worth it. Though I daresay we could have made it easier on ourselves if we weren’t both such idiots.”

Laughter wells up, pushing the tears away. “We are _such_ idiots.”

“Happy anniversary, idiot.” Sherlock grins, eyes sparkling turquoise in the now midday sunshine.

“Coffee?” 

“Coffee.”

They make breakfast together, eggs and beans on toast, giggling like schoolboys and kissing against the sink. When they go to Angelo’s for dinner that night, Angelo brings a candle for the table, and John smiles at Sherlock over the flickering flame. _So. A boyfriend, then?_

Sherlock shakes his head and puts John’s fingers to his lips, kisses the cool metal band. _No. A husband._

 


End file.
